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John Watson opened the door to the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes. Making his way to the kitchen, the short doctor deposited a bag of milk and a box of tea on the table. The oppressive silence reached his ears, and his brow furrowed. If Sherlock was home, he was constantly about John, commenting snarkily or making rapid-fire observations. Not that it was missed. And even if it was, John would be the last to admit it. Ruddy git, Sherlock was, and John couldn't be bothered to tell him otherwise. Until precisely three weeks ago. It had been twenty-one days since the two men had decided upon their mutual feelings for each other, and the strange tension had dissipated in the following days, John and Sherlock falling into a routine they knew seemingly by instinct. No sex, they agreed, Sherlock's asexuality and John's heterosexuality assuring that. However, displays of affection were permitted, and hugs had become common around 221B.
But this, an intrusive silence and a lack of Sherlock, concerned John. Lestrade hadn't texted him telling him to rid Scotland Yard of the towering, thin consultant. Mycroft wasn't there, confirmed by the absence of a worn umbrella by the door. John never understood Sherlock's brother's love for the silly thing. Padding down the hallway, John froze by the bathroom. If Sherlock was in his room, it would be best to leave him alone. If he was in John's bedroom, well, John wanted to know why. The doors to both rooms remained shut, and the now eerie silence had pervaded the entire house. With a sigh, John squared his shoulders and continued for his bedroom. This had best be worked out now, or he would have to go hunt down Sherlock to feed him dinner.
A violent smashing noise kicked the former army doctor into running. Hitting the door with his shoulder, John wildly glanced around the small flat bedroom, searching for the source of the clamour. There, in the corner by his wardrobe. Sherlock's crumpled form was outlined by the harsh sunlight streaming through the window. Which was open. John decided action was more necessary, questions could wait. Scooping his boyfriend up, John deposited him on the bed, his small but precise hands falling into the ingrained rite of a physician. Suddenly thin, cold fingers were wrapped around his and Sherlock shivered almost painfully hard. "No." Sherlock croaked, blue eyes fixated on John's grey ones. "Sherlock, what's wrong? I come home-" Sherlock's lips twitched at the word, "and the house is silent, you curled in a ball in my room-" John found himself cut off by a surprisingly soft pair of lips. Which was also surprisingly inviting to deepen the kiss.
John lost track of time, pulling away from Sherlock to gasp in air. "I mean, Sherlock, what?" Now desperately confused, the doctor struggled to sit upright again. He blushed when he realized he was straddling Sherlock's lap. Sherlock looked equally as flustered, and made a wild attempt to slide off the bed and wriggle out of John's grip simulatenously. "I um, I need to, experiment..." Trailing off unconvincingly, Sherlock wouldn't meet John's eyes again. "No, Sherlock, talk to me, what's going on?" John prompted again, tightening his grip on Sherlock's wrist. Unconciously, Sherlock moaned, another shiver wracking his lithe frame. Startled, John let go of his wrist, shocked at the almost-erotic sound. Almost. But it wasn't. Because John wasn't gay.
Wasn't Sherlock asexual then? And why was the damned window still open? John's confusion only built. When he turned his attention back to his boyfriend, he found Sherlock halfway down the hallway, and the sudden slam of the flat door. Shaking his head- not reminiscent of any kind of dog or canine, to clarify- John peeked out the window to check the fire escape. A small piece of paper caught his attention, and he scooped it up before the wind carried it off. On the paper, Mycroft Holmes' number was listed. Another question added itself to John's mental queue, he was British and therefor good at queues, why did Sherlock want to talk to his brother suddenly?
Later that night, Sherlock crept back into the flat and John took note from his room. "Dinner's in the fridge," he called, "It's Chinese again." Waiting for a reply, John registered Sherlock's hum of acceptance he reserved only for when he was thinking about The Work. John shrugged. Maybe Lestrade had given the bloody git a case to work on, that would clear up his so-claimed "experimental boredom."
John was more than happy to get off of work, there had been at least four accidents in the city today, which amazed him to no end. Maybe he wasn't the only person who couldn't get the hang of Thursdays. As he walked down the short steps in front of the hospital, a sleek black car pulled into the drive. Suddenly the events of yesterday hit him, and the name "Mycroft Holmes" popped into his head like a warning. The door swung open as soon as John neared it, and Anthea stared out with her strangely perceptive eyes. What did you expect from the employees of a Holmes? With a heavy sigh, John sank into the waiting seat in the car. Gliding away from the quickly-fading troubles of work, John turned his attention to Anthea. "So why does Mycroft want to see me?" he asked, not really curious but hey. "Mr. Holmes wishes to speak with you. Privately." Scrunching his face up, John nodded curtly and turned to stare, unfocused out the window.
After being escorted into a building full of marble and polished wood, John silently ascended the stairs to the office labeled "M. Holmes." Fitting, the brothers shared an enjoyment for the dramatic edge of life. Pushing open the brass handled door, John found himself in a brightly lit room, and the rather stately figure of Mycroft Holmes peering out the window. No doubt plotting a way to take down a terrorist organization. John dropped himself in a waiting seat, content to wait out the older Holmes' rather childish display. Mycroft spun around on one heel, regarding John cooly. "It has come to my attention that you are pursuing my younger brother." John simply stared at Mycroft, still waiting for the real heart of the problem. "You are aware of his... Reservations. When it comes to contact, I assume." At this, John sharply nodded, eyes narrowing. He didn't like the way this was going. With a smirk, Mycroft continued. "Sherlock is, well, rather stubborn. He resists contact for a very simple reason." "He's asexual." John stated, confidently. Until Mycroft dismissed his comment with a flick of his wrist.
"Hardly. My dear brother is anything but asexual. Nor is he above using his body to get what he wants." Glancing back out the window, Mycroft locked his hands behind his back. Nervous? John waited. "He is, however, confused about you." "About me?" John echoed, surprised. He snapped his jaw shut at the condescending look he gained at that. "I do believe that is what I said. So now it is to this. Are you, or are you not in a position you would be comfortable in a sexual relationship with my brother?" John gaped at Mycroft, his queue of questions bubbling up front. "Is that why, your number, and his, well, forget that. That's why he's been acting so off lately?" This gained an eye roll from the older man. "If you mean 'acting off' as being petulantly obtuse and out of character, then yes. My brother is pining after your affection, and he believes you are incapable of... satisfying that aspect."
John blinked a few times. Sherlock wanted him? He had agreed to the 'no sex' clause of their relationship though. Unless he thought John was stricly straight. Which he was. Well, mostly. Sherlock was the only exception. And maybe that man who played the tenth doctor on Doctor Who. But that was it. "Aside from your obvious attraction to David Tennant, you have shown physical reactions to Sherlock as well, I presume." John gritted his teeth. Damn Holmes. "Yes. I believe... He is an exception." John snapped, eyes flashing. Mycroft smirked again. "Then I assume my brother has not been informed of your flexibility of sexuality regarding him." "Well, not properly, I thought it was moot because of him..." John trailed off, registering the error he had made. He had to find Sherlock.
"Goodbye, John. Best wishes." The door to Mycroft's office slammed behind him, and John practically ran the length to his flat.
The flat door flew open before John's hand could touch it, and Sherlock drug him inside with a rare show of his wiry strength. "What did Mycroft say? What did he do to you? If he paid you to leave me then I swear I will go get your gun and-" John pressed his lips against Sherlock's. After a moment, Sherlock tentatively moved against him, shockingly blue eyes sliding closed. John reached up and wove Sherlock's hands into his hair, and sighed softly when his boyfriend took the hint. Their kiss rapidly became heated, and the couple broke apart panting. John tugged on Sherlock's hand again and pulled the taller man down the hallway. He felt Sherlock's gaze on his back, but refused to look back. Spinning around when he reached his door, John tiptoed up to Sherlock's ear. "If you follow me into this room, I promise you won't leave until tomorrow morning." Sherlock's sharp inhale was all he needed.
John practically ripped off his jumper when he reached his bed, and pushed Sherlock down. Crawling up the wiry form of his boyfriend, John softly kissed Sherlock again. Pressing kisses down his chin to his pale throat, John slid his hands up Sherlock's toned chest. His fingers hardly trembled as they worked on the buttons of the stretched fabric, noting that this was the Purple Shirt of Sex. Sherlock wriggled and whined beneath him, but John maintained a lazy pace. After making his way to the last button, John lowered his lips to Sherlock's collarbones, nipping and laving his tongue along the other man's body. Sliding the Purple Shirt of Sex off his boyfriend's shoulders, John smiled at the small sounds. "You are... So beautiful." Puncuating his phrases with soft kisses along Sherlock's abdomen, John felt long fingers tangle with his. "I thought. Ah, I thought you weren't-" Sherlock cut himself off with a small yip when John swirled his tongue around his nipple.
"Well, you thought wrong." John smirked up at Sherlock before giving the other nipple similar treatment. Sherlock had apparently lost all capacity for speech, unused to the careful worship John was administering. Squeezing Sherlock's trembling hand, John cupped his boyfriend's face with his free hand and kissed him deeply. Getting lost in the slide of tongues and pants between lips, the pair found themselves pressed as close as possible. Grinning again, John lightly trailed his fingers along Sherlock's pant edge, earning a breathy plea from the other man. In four quick movements, Sherlock was divested of his pants, and he was pawing at John's desperately. "Please, please Jawn, I can't-" John swiftly peeled his pants off, then teased Sherlock along the rim of his boxers. The taller man suddenly wriggled out of his own and managed to rip the seam out of John's in an attempt to get them off.
John ripped them the rest of the way off. "O-kay, that works." Sherlock whined in agreement, wrapping one leg around John's hips. Grinding down, John nibbled on Sherlock's neck until his boyfriend was close to tears of pleasure. Kissing his way to Sherlock's fine dusting of hair, John inhaled the rather musky-sweet scent that was Sherlock. Slowly pumping his boyfriend's cock, John licked at the slit, savouring the taste of pre-cum on his tongue. Sinking his mouth rather abrubtly over Sherlock's stiff dick, John moaned at the taste and swirled his tongue along the thick vein on the bottom. Sherlock stammered out weak cries of encouragement from above, almost writhing as John slid a finger back to tease his entrance.
"Fuck me, oh God, please Jawn, fuck me through this damn mattress." John suddenly felt the wind knocked out of him as Sherlock begged him. "Yeah, yes, absolutely," he found himself stuttering, already blindly reaching for lube and a condom. Sherlock snatched the condom out of his hand, "No, do it like this." "Are you sure?" John paused, eyes locked on Sherlock's. "Absolutely." "Oh God that's hot." Nudging Sherlock's knees open even further, John slicked up two fingers. "Have you done this before?" he breathed, eyes on Sherlock. "Yes. Just please, please, hurry..." Sherlock's whine trailed off as John slid one finger home, twisting another alongside as the other man's hips struggled to match his rhythm. Sherlock hissed after several minutes, and John repeated that exact movement, watching his boyfriend shudder and blue eyes roll back slightly. Smirking, he pulled his fingers out and slicked up his own cock.
Pressing into Sherlock's tight heat, John panted, twisting his fingers into Sherlock's once more. With a quick flick of his heel, Sherlock buries John in himself, letting out a screech of pain mixed with pleasure. After bottoming out more carefully, John stroked Sherlock's face. "I'm so sorry, love, please calm down," John pleaded with Sherlock, kissing the solitary tears that track down the other man's face. Slowly rolling his hips, John distracted Sherlock with soft nudges to his prostrate. Soon enough, the taller man was shuddering in time with John's thrusts and began pleading for more. Not one to deny his boyfriend, John sped up, snapping his hips faster. Wrapping one hand around Sherlock's cock, it wasn't long before he came with a long keening cry, which sounded suspiciously like John's name.
At the thought of making Sherlock Holmes lose it, John came with a groan, one hand cradling Sherlock's face. Slowly coming down from his high, Sherlock shivered as the chill from the room set in. John tugged the sheets over them, and gently pulled out of Sherlock. With a sigh at the loss of contact, the two men cuddled. Not that either of them would admit to secretly loving cuddling. John was the first to speak, "I want to check you out soon, just to make sure." Sherlock grinned with his usual feline aura, "Is that medical terminology for 'I would like to fuck you into the mattress again?'" It was John's turn to blush, "Well, yeah, but really Sherlock." "Of course, John." The two reveled in the more comfortable silence that followed.
Just before sleep reached his eyes, John heard Sherlock murmuring different ways to say 'I love you.' Turning his head slightly, he smiled softly and whispered, "It's okay, 'Lock. I love you too." Sherlock tensed momentarily, then carefully let the tension bleed out of his body. John felt a soft kiss pressed to the back of his head, and Sherlock's arm tightened around him. "I love you, John Watson." Not that they would ever admit to secretly being pleased at the romantic feeling of the phrase.
The sun slid through the window. Rubbing his eye, John raised his head from the pillow of Sherlock's arm, then sighed. There was definitely a shower in order, although the smell of sex that inhibited to room was erotically delightful. John carefully slid out of Sherlock's grip, but froze when he heard the consulting detective's snicker. "What?" he turned slightly, appreciating Sherlock's lean form beneath the sheet. "Oh, nothing, just admiring your ass, Doctor Watson." Sherlock chirped airily. "Well aren't you the snarky little one. Then let it be known Doctor Watson finds your filthy mouth positively appalling." John breathed in Sherlock's ear as he braced himself easily above his boyfriend. Sherlock shuddered under him, a feral snarl escaping him. "To the shower?" "To the shower."